


Behind Melpomene's Tears

by Hakoirii



Series: In Erato's Wake [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Ciel is GWL, Ciel's Childhood, Dean's Sketchbook, Dean-Centric, F/M, Fem!Ciel, Girl-Who-Lived, Little!Ciel, One-Sided Attraction, Victorian Themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-04-02 05:04:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4047097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hakoirii/pseuds/Hakoirii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The line between reality and fantasy blurred, memories playing back inside his head, haunting him. He was a valet - servant, bodyguard, companion, friend, but nothing more. She was a countess, the court’s darling, the Queen’s favorite. Men and boys alike fell down at her feet. He never stood a chance. He couldn’t erase the images burned into his mind, so he drew. He put his heart on paper and hid it away with the memories. It was the closest thing he had to forgetting, for what was an artist to do but follow his muse?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_If you’re going to break someone’s heart, yeah/ Might as well, might as well be mine - Hunter Hayes, Somebody’s Heartbreak_

* * *

“You missed the funeral.”

Dean Thomas looked blank. He was too numb to sympathize. He barely felt the cold as the chill of early winter crept into the room. “Didn’t know I was invited,” he answered hollowly, lying back down to stare at the ceiling. Neither of them spoke for a while but he could feel those somber eyes on him, taking in every detail of his listless form. Under normal circumstances he would have squirmed under that unyielding gaze but at the moment he couldn’t muster the strength to care.

“Your parents are worried.” There was reproach in that voice, but it was halfhearted in a way that sounded exhausted by grief. He didn’t respond so they lapsed into silence again. He already knew his staunch refusal to leave his old room other than to relieve himself troubled both his parents. Maybe it was selfish of him but all he wanted was to be left alone, to draw, or to wake up with the realization that it had only been a nightmare and everything was still the same. He didn’t know how long he had been laying there on that thin mattress and staring into space. It might have been weeks or months, even years. Time seemed to bleed into one giant blur.

A resigned sigh broke him out of his reverie. “They found this in the rubble,” his visitor said, placing something down beside him then leaving. That was it. Dean wondered if he had just failed some kind of test before deciding that he didn’t care. He turned his head to see what had been placed on his bed. It took a moment for him to register what he was seeing. He pushed himself into an upright position and picked it up with a reverent slowness. Wide-eyed and trembling, he traced the letters carved neatly in the leather: _Property of Dean Leander Thomas_.

It had been obviously singed in places, and the pages were all burnt in places along the edges, but it was otherwise whole and intact. The irony that this of all things had come back to him, that mere leather and paper had survived while everything around it was being reduced to ash, was more than he could take. Dean hadn’t cried yet, but the tears flowed freely now falling silently onto the sketchbook in his lap.

 


	2. Sketch I: Serendipity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serendipity: the finding of something wonderful while in search of something else, in other words this is how it all began

* * *

_Just the same old same/It goes to show you never know/When everything’s about to change – Jesse McCartney, Best Day of My Life_

* * *

The first picture hadn’t been drawn in the sketchbook at all. It was on an extremely worn-looking scrap piece of paper which Dean had very carefully pasted to the inside cover. The paper depicted a side view of a pair of swans preparing to land, their wings folding as one hit the surface of the river and sent up a small spray of water which caught the light. The figure of the other swan had been frozen in time beside the first with its feet still inches away from the water.

It was an extraordinary likeness, or it would have been if the wings of the second swan had actually been fully shaded. The swans’ surroundings also consisted of little more than vague outlines and they had remained that way for years. Dean had little intention of changing that. The incompleteness of the drawing was something like a memento of the day his whole world had changed. He traced the outline of one wing not truly seeing it as he lost himself to the memory playing back in his head.

* * *

Dean lay sprawled on the park bench, sketching on a scrap of paper with the piece of charcoal he’d swiped when his mother wasn’t looking. It was a miraculously warm day for late autumn in England but his part of the park remained quite empty despite the good weather. Not that it mattered either way, he thought, it wasn’t as if any of the people passing through would pay attention to a little black boy dressed in threadbare clothes.

Oh how very wrong he was, but for the time being he lay there drawing peacefully with the warm sun on his back. It wasn’t the first time he had done this and Dean was very comfortable, comfortable enough that he could pretend for a while. He could pretend that maybe his family wouldn’t be spending the night huddled around the small fire to keep warm. He could pretend that he hadn’t really felt the autumn chill nipping at his exposed skin as he made his way to his sanctuary.

Having finished painstakingly shading in the wing feathers of one swan he paused and looked wistfully around at the trees around him, wishing not for the first time wished that he had more to draw with than smuggled bits of charcoal. He knew better than to ask of course. His parents had enough to worry about since his little sister Charlotte Rose had caught scarlet fever. His mother was so busy fussing over the infant and fretting between chores that she didn’t have the energy to spare for anything else. His stepfather was hardly ever home, working twice as long to try and save enough money to get Lottie a doctor.

He shook his head vigorously and forced the thoughts from his mind, focusing instead on the memory of when his step-father had brought him to the candy store to buy his mother something sweet for her birthday. As they passed the Thames Dean had seen two great white birds coming in for a landing on the river. He had never seen swans before and struck by how beautiful they were, he’d sworn to himself to recreate it on paper.

He returned to his drawing with vigor, not knowing in moments he would abandon his swans in favor of a beautiful girl who would be the muse for the rest of his life nor that his future was wrought with secrets and danger because he would follow her wherever she lead. He had no idea that his whole world was about to be set spinning round a different axis and nothing would ever be the same again. And even if he had, he wouldn’t have expected for it all to start with just five words.

“You’re the color of chocolate.”

 


	3. Sketch II: Enchantment

* * *

_‘Cause all I know is we said hello/And your eyes look like coming home – Taylor Swift, Everything Has Changed_

* * *

Dean jolted, dropped the piece of charcoal he was holding then proceeded to flail around in an attempt to catch said piece of charcoal before it hit the ground. He merely succeeded in falling off his bench and landing in a graceless heap on the ground. “Ow,” he grumbled, sitting up and rubbing at a particularly sore spot. His hand came away stained black. He’d landed on the charcoal, which was now little more than a small heap of black dust with a few fragments here and there. His shoulders slumped, so much for finishing today.

A pair of slender legs in knee-high socks and low-heeled leather boots came into his line of sight. Clearly the girl who had crept up on him was from a wealthy family (had to be if she owned socks and shoes like that). He didn’t really care at the moment. “Oh, did you draw this?” He looked up sharply at the question. She had his drawing in her hands. He picked himself off the ground, dusting off his clothes and opened his mouth to tell her that yes he had drawn the picture and it was entirely her fault that he wouldn’t be able to finish it today like he’d intended. “It’s beautiful,” she said, finally looking at him, and the words never left his lips.

From the moment Dean looked into her eyes he had been lost. All he could see was her and he thought vaguely that surely the angels in Heaven must look something like this. Her fair skin positively glowed in the sunlight which seemed to have also set a halo upon her dark hair. And her eyes, Dean had never wished to draw in color more than he did at that moment: they reminded him of the sky after the sun had set and the stars were just starting to show, but night had not yet fallen.

He looked and looked, even though he already knew her image would never leave his memory. Then her words finally sunk in and he blushed with pride. Hastily holding out his clean hand he introduced himself, “I’m Dean Thomas.”

She looked from his face to his outstretched hand, and then back again with a curious expression on her face.  Dean was just wondering if he should explain to her what a handshake was when they were interrupted by the sound of a dog barking. “Sebastian!” She giggled delightedly when a black hound as tall as he was suddenly bowled her over licking her face and barking loudly. “Down, boy!” It lay down immediately and wagged its tail, still barking.

“Young Mistress, there you are!” Slightly bewildered, Dean watched as an old man wearing a monocle ran toward them. He called out to someone behind him, “Sebastian’s found her, My Lord!”

“Ah, Gramps!” The girl (he still didn’t know her name) exclaimed, looking up at him from where she sat on the ground scratching the large dog’s ears.

The old man wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “Please, don’t just disappear like that, Young Mistress. Your father was worried. Look, here he comes now.” Dean followed their gaze to see a tall, finely dressed man quickly making his way to where they were.

“Ciel!” Dean felt uncomfortably like an outsider as he watched the man sweep his daughter into his arms and hold her close. “Never do that again,” the man said firmly. “What if something had happened to you?” She mumbled what Dean imagined was an apology into her father’s shoulder. The elderly servant standing behind them shook his head with a fond look. The nobleman sighed and stood up, still holding his daughter securely in his arms. Then he noticed Dean, who was still standing there awkwardly with his hand frozen in front of him, preparing for a handshake. “Oh, and who’s this? What’s your name, boy?”

Flustered at being addressed directly, Dean did a clumsy imitation of a bow. “Dean Thomas, sir.”

“Can I keep him, father?” Dean blinked. What?

The lord cast Dean an appraising look. “We’ll see, but he’s a boy, not a stray for you to take home, understand, Ciel?”

“Yes!”

* * *

Dean flipped through the next few pages. They were all full of Ciel’s face from that day. He didn’t know how many times he’d traced the lines forming her face, but these sketches had been the first. Two or three per page, done with proper charcoal pencils instead of scraps from the hearth, they had seemed wonderful then, but now, no matter how carefully he'd shaded the image, her face appeared cold and flat. The curve of her lips never seemed to reach the eyes, a mere mockery of the smile he loved.

Unable to look further, Dean shut the book. A walk sounded good right now. He needed to get away for a while.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is really supposed to be practice so I suppose I intend to leave it somewhat rough, but a beta would be nice if anyone wants to volunteer? I will also be taking tag suggestions.


	4. Sketch III: Tomorrow

* * *

_We always said, someday, somehow/ We were gonna get away, gonna blow this town/ What about now, how ‘bout tonight – Lonestar, What About Now_

* * *

Dean collapsed on the mattress the minute he returned to his parents’ house. His parents’ house, not home. If he was honest with himself, this place hadn’t been home in years. It didn’t matter that his family was all here. It didn’t even matter that the small house had been the only thing his birth father had left to his mother. He turned his head to stare at his sketchbook. All he had left of home was what was between those pages. Everything else had been reduced to cinders and ashes. Dean wanted to hide it away in some secret place as much as he wanted to chuck the damn thing at a wall. Neither would accomplish anything though. He settled for opening it where he’d left off instead.

Tanaka smiled back at him from the page, peering over a chipped tea cup in his parents’ kitchen. Once, Dean would have smiled at the memory. Now though, it was tainted by a bitter sense of regret.

* * *

The knock on the door had come unexpectedly. “Dean, get the door, please,” his mother ordered, muttering under her breath, “Who goes visiting at this hour?” Obediently, he went to fetch the door. And there, standing in the doorway was the old man from the park a few days ago. “Heavens, child, you’re letting the cold in.” Dean didn’t realize he’d been staring until his mother came by to see what was taking him so long. Then she saw who was at the door, and she stared too.

The old man simply smiled, and addressed her as calmly and casually as if this was an everyday occurrence. He didn’t seem at all perturbed by their gawking. “Good evening, Ma’am. Is your husband home? I’d like to have a word with him.”

His mother seemed rather flustered. “Oh…oh my goodness, Dean, go fetch your father. He’s in his study,” she said, before turning back to the unexpected guest. “Please, come in and have a seat, oh, I apologize for the mess, but I wasn’t expecting…Would you like some tea?”

He must have given an affirmative answer because Dean could hear his mother bustle into the kitchen as he quietly made his way to his step-father’s study. “Papa?” he asked, opening the door a crack and poking his head through.

“Dean? Did you need something?” His step-father looked up. “I’m a bit busy at the moment,” he said, making a sweeping gesture toward the papers strewn all over his desk.

“There’s someone here to see you,” he said, looking the man over carefully. Nathaniel Thomas looked incredibly exhausted. There were bags under his eyes and his brown hair stuck up from where he’d been running his fingers through it in frustration.

“To see me?” he asked, bemused.

Dean nodded. “He’s in the kitchen.” With a sigh the elder Thomas rose out of his seat and followed Dean to the kitchen.

“Ah, here is Mr. Thomas.” The man in question looked startled at being addressed so suddenly, not to mention the peculiar sight of an old man dressed in a sophisticated suit and white gloves sitting in his house’s kitchen, drinking tea.

Still rather stunned, Nathaniel spoke up, “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Mister….”  

“Tanaka.” It was a strange name Dean thought, but it seemed to suit the old man.

“Mr. Tanaka then,” Nathaniel repeated, clearly agreeing with the first thought. “Err, how may I help you?” He looked side ways over at Dean, and added in an undertone, “Dean, off to bed now.”

Mr. Tanaka raised a glove hand to stop him. “That will not be necessary. I am here to discuss him after all.”

His step-father now looked even more bewildered than before. “Excuse me?”

“I am a butler, Mr. Thomas, and I am here representing my employer, the Earl Vincent Phantomhive. My Lord would like to offer the younger Mr. Thomas,” he inclined his head toward Dean, “a position in the Phantomhive household as one of the family servants. He will have a starting salary of 10 shillings a week to be paid on Sundays, a portion of which may be sent home if he wishes. Along with the customary room and board, he will also be receiving an education so that he may properly represent the Phantomhive name.”

“I don’t think I understand.” Surprisingly, it was his mother who spoke, wringing her hands and looking anxious. His step-father seemed for the moment completely speechless. “He’s only a child.” Dean bristled at the statement.

Nathaniel seemed to have gathered his wits somewhat. “That’s a very generous offer,” he said haltingly, “but as you can undoubtedly tell, I am not Dean’s birth father.” He turned to look at his wife. “Elaine, this is your choice. I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to decide his future.”

Dean’s mother bit her lip. “Dean, what do you want?” she asked.

Looking the old butler straight in the eye, he asked the most important question. “Will I see Ciel?”

The man raised his grey eyebrows at the question, and he answered slowly, “Yes, you will see the Young Mistress.”

Nodding in satisfaction, he looked back at his mother. “I want to go, Mama.”

There was something in the look in her eyes that Dean didn’t recognize, but all that mattered was her consent. “…Alright, then, you may go.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Tanaka said, getting to his feet and heading for the door. “In that case, my business here is done. A carriage will come by tomorrow afternoon to bring you and your things to the estate.” He inclined his head to the lady of the house, “Thank you for the tea.” He smiled once more and left.

* * *

The minute he’d arrived at the manor the next day, Dean had asked after Ciel, only to be promptly scolded by the housekeeper for his blatant disrespect toward the Young Mistress of the house. Then he’d found out he wouldn’t be seeing his muse until he was deemed satisfactory, so Dean had done the only thing he could do and poured everything he had into his training. He learned how to read and write, and how to speak like a proper servant, but most importantly he learned how to fight with a ruthless efficiency. All for the sake of his muse.  

Now Dean knew what had been in his mother’s eyes that day. Pity. She must have predicted that this was how things would turn out. She should have warned him or something, he thought. Then Dean wondered if it would have made any difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I think these are getting longer. I don't know if that's a good or bad thing yet though.


	5. Sketch IV: Ethereal

* * *

_And they all got the same heartbeat, but [his] is falling behind/ Nothing in this world could ever bring them down/ Yeah, they’re invincible, and [he’s] just in the background – Echosmith, Cool Kids_

* * *

The first time Dean saw his muse since arriving at the Phantomhive Manor was entirely an accident.

Mr. Tanaka had tasked him with assisting the maids cleaning the dining hall in preparation for the next day’s guest. While they washed the windows, polished the table, cleaned and waxed the floor, Dean was to shake out all the drapes then get on a stepladder to dust them from top to bottom. There wasn’t much else he could do as he was easily the youngest, and most inexperienced of the servants.

He was at one of the windows overlooking the gardens and with spring setting in, he couldn’t help but look out with a sense of wonder.  The gardeners did good work and the gardens always made wonderful subjects for his drawings.

The flash of something golden drew his eyes. A blonde boy, probably a few years older than he was, was standing next to one of the head gardener’s fantastic topiaries. He looked to be waiting for something. Then Dean saw her. His muse. She was running toward the boy with both hands behind her back. He thought he caught a glimpse of something black.

She wore a white and blue sailor dress with a red ribbon in the front. There were matching ribbons in the two bunches trailing out behind her as she ran. He watched his muse stop a short distance away from her target, presumably to catch her breath, and then bring her hands out in front of her, revealing the something black to be an elegant top hat with a bright green hat band. She slowly crept up behind the older boy with it in her hands. The boy must have heard her coming because Dean saw him turn around when she was just behind him. A pout crossed the little girl’s face but she recovered quickly, standing on tiptoe to place the hat on the blonde’s head. It fell down to his ears and he reached a hand up to tilt it back. Dean couldn’t hear what they said to each other but the smile that lit up his muse’s face less than a minute later was dazzling even at this distance.

Another girl came running up to them. With curls the exact same shade of gold, she could only be the boy’s sister. She was followed at a distance by Sebastian. As she passed the two children by the topiary, she seized the other girl by the hand and pulled her along. Her brother quickly followed after them, and the great black wolfhound pursued the three children all around the garden. Dean watched the merry chase longingly. It had been months since he first met his muse. He wished he could just be at her side already. He wondered if she would remember him at all by the time Mr. Tanaka was satisfied.

“Thomas! Stop staring out the window and get back to work before you hurt yourself.”

Dean started. Suddenly the stepladder and the glass of the window both melted away and he pitched forward. He flailed around helplessly at he fell, the sound of children’s laughter ringing mockingly in his ears.

* * *

Dean awoke with a jolt, tangled up with his blanket and his heart pounding furiously. He waited for it to slow down and untangled himself, tiredly running a hand through his hair. He glared at the sketchbook which lay open innocently beside him. The drawings of three young aristocrats running and laughing joyously in the Phantomhive gardens seemed to mock the unease still gripping his heart.

He flipped through the pages until he found the first page in color. Ciel smiling as she held the drawing set out to him the day he was finally inducted into her service. She hadn’t forgotten him. Dean lay back down and tried to fall back asleep with the image of his smiling muse in mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Edward & Lizzie made their first appearance in this chapter but only in the background, so I won't tag them yet. I've about reached the end of my brain wave, so updates will be sporadic for a while until I hopefully settle into some kind of rhythm. Thanks for reading!


	6. Sketch V: Saudade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saudade: a longing for something precious which has been lost and is somehow irretrievable, the love that lingers in the aftermath

* * *

_And as my train rolls down the east coast/ I wonder how you keep warm/ It’s too late to cry/ Too broken to move on – Ron Pope, A Drop In The Ocean_

* * *

Dean twitched at the sight of the next drawings in his book. They were all from when he first saw that man, and just the memory of that day was enough to make Dean want to punch something. He glared at the page. He’d almost succeeded in shoving it all the way to the back of his mind too.

* * *

“ _Diedrich_!” With obvious delight, Ciel ran up to the visitor, a man whom Dean had never seen before. Dean also noticed that she spoke the man’s name differently from the Master, in a way that didn’t sound like English. She stopped in front of this Diedrich’s chair and held her arms out to him.

Diedrich looked back into her wide, doe-like eyes with a stern expression. “Tch,” he scoffed, sounding annoyed. “Troublesome like your father,” he muttered, but caving and picking up the little heiress nonetheless.

As soon as she was in his lap, Ciel wrapped her arms around the man’s neck. “ _Ich habe dich vermisst_ ,” she said sweetly, resting her head in the crook of it and smiling. Definitely not English then, Dean thought. He didn’t understand a word of what the Young Mistress said, but Diedrich had quickly turned his head away from the girl, looking uncomfortable.

Lord Vincent Phantomhive watched the pair before him with a sly smile on his handsome face. “Who would have thought it’d be so easy to melt your heart, Dee?” he teased.

Dean stared resentfully at the man now spluttering at the head of the house, silently wishing he would just disappear back to wherever he had come from already. There was a gnawing feeling in the pit of Dean’s stomach even though he had just eaten lunch, and he just knew it was somehow that man’s fault.

Dean observed this _Diedrich_ with a critical eye, wondering what it was that made his muse look at the man with such eyes. Dean couldn’t see anything special about him. Sure, the man was tall and broad-shouldered, and his short black hair with the slightly longer forelocks parted to the right may have been considered handsome, but none of that could make up for his angry face and lousy attitude. His clothes were strange too, nothing like the Master’s neat suit. He wore a long, double-breasted coat in a muted shade of green with matching pants and tall black boots.

His muse sat in Diedrich’s lap, quite happily nibbling at a sandwich. One of his arms was around her waist, preventing her from falling as the man single-handedly devoured the rest of the sandwiches. What did she see in him? All he did was eat. Then Dean noticed that Ciel’s double-breasted dress was the same muted green as the visitor’s coat. She wore black knee-high boots and her two bunches were tied with matching ribbons. She’d even left the top buttons unbuttoned in the same way.

Dean decided that he hated green. He glared at the man who didn’t even notice.

“Hey,” a sudden thought seemed to strike Diedrich as he chewed his latest sandwich, and he eyed the girl in his lap curiously. “Why’s your daughter learning German?” He looked across the table at Vincent. “Don’t tell me you plan on bringing her next time you come hassle me.”

“I had no idea she decided to learn your mother tongue,” the earl replied pleasantly. “We’ll just have to ask her.” He looked at his daughter. “Ciel?” he inquired.

The little girl looked up from her sandwich at her father, and then turned her gaze to Diedrich. “Gramps is teaching me,” she said brightly, “so when I grow up, I can marry you.” Dean decided that he hated German too and he glared harder.

Diedrich nearly choked on his sandwich in surprise, but recovered soon after much to Dean’s eternal disappointment. “Phantomhive! What are you teaching her?!” the man exclaimed loudly. 

Vincent, instead of reacting angrily to his daughter’s declaration like Dean thought he should be, looked amused. “She’s usually quite shy but she seems to really like you, Dee.” The other man glowered at him. Dean would have too if he wasn’t the Master of the house. “I’ve heard that children are good judges of character. You are a very kind and reliable guy, aren’t you?”

The German looked dubiously at the older Phantomhive. “…tch.” He glanced sideways at Ciel who was nuzzled against him, her small hands clinging to the front of his coat. “Saying weird things all of a sudden…” Diedrich muttered grouchily, reaching for another sandwich.

“That’s why,” the earl continued pleasantly, “should anything happen to me, I’m counting on you to look after them.”

* * *

It didn’t mattered in the end, Dean thought bitterly. Neither of them had even been anywhere near the manor at the time. Now she was gone and she wasn’t coming back. Dean’s hands clenched tightly about the edge of the blanket, his eyes burning with angry tear


	7. Sketch VI: Velleitie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Velleitie: a powerful desire for something which cannot be followed by actions meant to pursue it

* * *

_Little do you know/ How I’m breaking as you fall asleep/ Little do you know/ I’m still haunted by the memories – Alex & Sierra, Little Do You Know_

* * *

“Dean? It’s for you.” Dean didn’t know how he had ended up at his parent’s dinner table for the first time in weeks, but there he was, at least physically. His mind was somewhere far removed from the mealtime chatter of his parents and half-sisters. It took him an entire minute to realize that his step-father was holding a letter out to him. Nodding dumbly, Dean put his fork down and took the letter.

Slowly turning the envelope over in his hands, Dean examined the letter with a vacant expression. He recognized the Burnett coat of arms stamped into the wax. It was from Doctor Dalles. Confused, Dean broke the seal and removed the letter, wondering all the while what she could possibly be writing him for. He unfolded the expensive paper and started to read. By the end of it Dean’s fingers were trembling so badly the letter slipped through them. Not bothering to pick it off the floor, he pushed his chair back and shakily got up from the table.

His mother looked up at the noise. “Dean, where are you going? You’ve barely touched your food.” Dean didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at her. He just headed straight for the door. “You’re not going outside?!” Elaine sounded incredulous. “You’re not wearing your coat! Dean, it’s the dead of winter. You’ll freeze to death! Dean? Dean? Dean!”

Dean didn’t hear her. In seconds he was out the door and tearing down the street, just two words of the baroness’s letter on his mind. Tanaka. Dying. In his head Dean cursed the cruelty of God, and Fate, and every other power he could think of. Why give him those years of happiness only to strip it all away now?

He turned sharply onto a busy street, nearly colliding with a crowd of people coming from the opposite direction. Dean pushed his way through, mumbling apologies at random. He thought of the hours Mr. Tanaka had spent teaching him to play chess. The head butler had seen how Dean watched Ciel while she played with Clause and had taken the boy under his wing. Mr. Tanaka had been the one to explain the rules to him, to show him different strategies and when to apply them. Dean had never won against his mentor, not even once, and now he was terrified that he might be losing the man himself as well.

He rounded another corner, knocking into someone as he passed. The stranger shoved him roughly back. Dean stumbled and fell into the snowbank. The icy snow clung to his clothes and Dean shivered. A few people jeered, but Dean picked himself up, thinking all the while of the time his second youngest sister had scarlet fever and he read her to sleep. Josie had worked herself into hysterics every night before falling into a restless sleep. Dean would never forget the look in his mother’s eyes when she saw the little girl curled up against him, still flushed but sleeping peacefully for the first time in weeks. He pressed on. It meant staying away from the manor longer than expected, but he’d read to Josie every night until she recovered. That had only been possible because Mr. Tanaka taught Dean how to read beyond just recognizing his letters and when they spelled his name. It was the first time he’d appreciated any aspect of his training beyond how it made running errands less difficult.

Dean was so concentrated on his destination that he never saw the patch of ice on the street, just a gap in the crowd. He pitched forward, landing heavily on his hands and knees. Pain shot up to his elbows. Dean winced. He looked around as he got to his feet. ‘Not that much further,’ he told himself and started running again. He didn’t know where he found the energy when his legs were already burning with the reminder that he’d been lying in bed for weeks. His hands and knees stung from their impact with the ground, his ears felt painfully cold, even breathing hurt, but Dean kept going.

Several people screamed when Dean burst through a set of doors at the Royal London Hospital. He knew he must have looked a right mess, sweaty and wild-eyed in his torn, snow-drenched clothes, but he didn’t care. He ignored every scolding, every scandalized look thrown his way and ran as fast as he could.

Dean skidded to a halt, panting in front of Doctor Dalles. The crimson-haired doctor looked mildly surprised to see him, but then a sad, knowing look crossed her face and she gestured to the door. “He’s in there.” Dean struggled to catch his breath and then followed her into the room.

A heavily bandaged Mr. Tanaka lay in the hospital bed, eyes closed in what seemed to be a healing sleep, but he knew from the letter that that wasn’t the case. “It looks like he’s just asleep, but we can’t wake him.” Doctor Dalles looked sadly at the butler’s still form. “Dean, he’s not as young as he was,” she said softly, calling him by his name for the first time he could remember. “His injuries were pretty severe when they brought him in. The doctors have done the best they could, but there’s a good chance he n-never wakes up.” Her voice quivered slightly.

“There really isn’t anything you can do?” Dean asked, dazedly. He felt lost.

“We can pray, pray for a miracle, but that’s all.” Doctor Dalles looked at Dean, taking in his disheveled appearance. “I’ll go find you a towel,” she said with a forced smile and started to leave. She hesitated at the door and added, “If you wanted to say good-bye, this would be your chance.” That it was a chance he hadn’t gotten with anyone else didn’t need to be said.

Dean dropped numbly into the visitor’s chair, determinedly looking at anything but Mr. Tanaka. There was a framed picture on the bedside table and Dean latched onto the distraction, picking it up and examining it. His eyes widened.

Instead of a photograph, the frame contained a slightly charred and soot-stained drawing. One of Dean’s. He remembered carefully cut it out of his sketchbook to show Ciel. It was a Phantomhive family portrait which he’d done because his muse had hated how no one looked themselves in the family photo. He had taken a long time to finish it since he didn’t already have a memory he could transfer to paper, and he’d also chosen to draw everything in color, but Ciel had smiled so brilliantly when she saw it.

Naturally, Dean had drawn her in the center of the portrait, with her father just behind her. A secretive sort of half smile played about Master Vincent’s face. He had one arm wrapped around Lady Rachel’s shoulders and the countess had a hand placed affectionately against her husband’s chest, but they were both looking at their daughter holding hands with Lord Edward, who looked pink-cheeked and flustered. Lady Elizabeth was clutching her brother’s other arm, leaning in while Ciel whispered some great secret to her. Marchioness Francis Midford stood behind her children, a little farther to the side, straight-backed and proud with one hand placed delicately in the crook of her husband’s arm. The Marquis Alexis Midford was smiling happily, but his wife looked as stern as ever. On the other side, Doctor Dalles stood behind her sister holding her late husband, the Baron Burnett, by the arm and laughing joyously.

The picture reminded Dean for the first time that he was not the only who had suffered losses that day. Angelina Dalles seemed like a shell of her former self. Dean had seen it as she left. It was barely noticeable and most people wouldn’t have, but Dean could tell that her chin were a little sharper, her cheeks a little more hollow. Her eyes had lost their sparkle, and even her hair seemed drab and dull. She looked nothing like the lively woman that used to visit the manor.

Dean put the picture down. His head hurt. He turned to look at Mr. Tanaka and a burning feeling of guilt and shame welled up inside him, threatening to spill over. The baroness just lost her husband in that carriage accident a little while ago, and now she had lost her beloved sister and nephew as well. She had every right to lock herself in her estate to grieve, but she hadn’t. She had been here, at the hospital, working to try to save the mentor that until her letter Dean was too busy wallowing in his own misery to even remember was alive.

Dean took one of the butler’s hands in both of his own. He used to think that his mentor was indomitable, but at the moment Mr. Tanaka looked every inch a frail, old man. Dean hated it. He thought of every martial arts lesson, every sparring session he’d ever had with his mentor. Dean never went to bed afterward without being sore or covered in bruises and mentally cursing the man for every one, but Dean would take it all back now if he could just get his mentor back.

Doctor Dalles had told him to say his good-byes, but where did he begin? How was he supposed to put what he felt into words? He had never wanted anything more than he now wanted Mr. Tanaka to wake up from his not-sleep. Dean bowed his head in desperate prayer. “Please… I’ll do anything.” He looked to the bed, hoping against hope that somehow something would have happened. Nothing seemed to have changed. Dean felt drained. His head drooped and he tightened his grip on the old butler’s hand.

Then, something did happen: the hand clasped in Dean’s gave a slight twitch. Dean froze, scarcely daring to breathe. He didn’t think what was left of his heart would survive another let down. But it happened again. Mr. Tanaka let out a quiet groan and stirred faintly. Dean didn’t hesitate any longer. He pelted out of the room. “Doctor! Somebody get Doctor Dalles! Doctor! I need a doctor!” Dean couldn’t see straight. He wiped his eyes angrily, but everything was still spinning. He could just make out the blurred outline of a panicked Doctor Dalles running down the hall toward him. Dean tried to tell her what happened, but no sound would come out. The corridor seemed to tilt on some kind of axis, and Dean vaguely registered the feeling of his legs giving out underneath him. He was so, so tired.

Everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This turned out much longer than I expected it to. What do you think of how I portrayed Dean's emotions? Well, hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	8. Sketch VII: Dormiveglia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dormiveglia: the place that stretches between sleeping and waking

* * *

_So far away from where you are/ These miles have torn us worlds apart/And I miss you, yeah, I miss you - Lifehouse, From Where You Are_

* * *

Dean was six years old again, watching a little blue-haired girl bite her lip in concentration and then beam in triumph as she moved to claim her opponent's king. "Checkmate."

The man sitting across the table from her stared at the board in disbelief for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed heartily. "So it is. Well done, bambina."

"Can we play again?" Ciel asked hopefully.

Clause shook his head. "I must return to work, bambina. I cannot stay, nor do I think my pride can take a second such defeat," he teased to make her laugh. He proved successful when a small giggle escaped Dean's muse. He picked her up and sat her on his shoulder. "Come. Let us return you to your father. I believe he is expecting another guest, someone I hear you are quite fond of."

Clause chuckled when the Young Mistress perked up immediately at this news, her merry mood fully recovered. " _Diedrich_!" Dean scowled at the sound of that man's name but followed them dutifully out of the room.

As they made their way to the drawing room, an indignant bellow in accented English reached their ears. "YOU TOLD ME YOU HAD URGENT BUSINESS WITH ME!"

Clause sighed, changing course for the Master's study. "Ahh, they're this way then…Ciel?" The young heiress had left her lofty perch on the man's shoulders and was scrambling down his back. She dropped lightly to the floor and ran off in the direction of the shouting. Clause chuckled. "She really is fond of that man then, isn't she?" Dean scowled harder. Clause must have noticed because he laughed outright. "That's quite the expression, boy. Take caution that your face does not get stuck that way." Recognizing a reprimand for what it was Dean schooled his features.

By the time they reached the study, Ciel had already magically persuaded the grouchy German to pick her up. Dean refused to believe anyone else was capable of such a feat, but not even the angelic presence of Dean's muse seemed to lighten the German's perpetually stormy mood. "You called me here for something this trivial?!"

Master Vincent's tone was unusually somber as he spoke. "So…you're saying that you wouldn't care if my beloved family were to die…"

"Nobody said that!" Diedrich exclaimed, eyeing the suddenly crestfallen look on the little girl in his arms with a panicked expression.

"Old man Diedrich is awful, isn't he?" Master Vincent lamented to Ciel, ignoring the German's indignant protest of "Don't call me old man!"

Dean silently agreed, though he expected for completely different reasons.

The Phantomhive heiress's wide blue eyes watered. "Maman's cough sounded really bad" she said, biting her lip anxiously. "I want her to get better quickly."

"D-don't you have a cook?" the German protested, but Dean could see the man's resolve cracking.

"Come now, Diedrich," Clause chided, speaking up for the first time. Dean knew better than to think that any of the men had been unaware of the presence of each of the others though. "Surely, you won't refuse the little lady? It would be terrible manners after all."

The German glared at him and Clause held up his hands in mock surrender

"We do, but…" Master Vincent placed a hand comfortingly on top of his daughter's head, looking at his taller man with a sly expression, "don't they say the most important ingredient is love?"

Ciel nodded vigorously in agreement. " _Bitte, Diedrich_ ," she said, fixing the German with the saddest, most pleading look Dean had ever seen and he knew the exact moment in which the man's resolve crumbled.

* * *

Dean opened his eyes reluctantly. It had been a good dream, memory rather, even if made his chest ache. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and took a better look at his surroundings, his tired muscles protesting the movement. Dean couldn't remember where he was, but that might just be due to how fuzzy his brain felt. It was a small room. There was an empty vase and a Bible on the little nightstand beside the bed. On the other side of the bed was a chair with some clothes folded neatly in a pile. They looked familiar. Dean looked down at himself and noticed (with some embarrassment) for the first time that someone had changed him.

The pieces fell slowly into place and then Dean remembered where he was: the hospital. The door creaked open and he caught a glimpse of crimson hair. He sat up immediately, ignoring the dull pounding that started up in his head as he did so. "Tanaka?" he asked anxiously, before the doctor had even finished closing the door. "How is he?" His words came out rougher than usual and his throat hurt when he spoke.

Dean couldn't read the expression on Doctor Dalles's face as she approached his bedside. He steeled himself, fearing the worst when she suddenly threw her arms around him. "How did you do it?" she asked, her voice thick with tears, "I thought we tried everything."

"He's alright then?" Dean needed to focus on something other than the dream and he didn't know how to answer her question.

The doctor gave him a watery smile. "It'll take time but we expect him to make a full recovery."

Relief washed over Dean in a glorious wave. "May I see him?" he asked.

"No." Doctor Dalles looked suddenly stern as she released Dean from her grasp. He looked up at her sharply, thinking that perhaps he misheard her. Seeing the indignant look on Dean's face she continued before he had the chance to protest. "Not yet at least, you're ill. Your fever only just broke this morning."

"I'm fine," Dean insisted, and tried to get out of the bed. His limbs didn't seem particularly keen on obeying him though, and he ended up getting tangled with the sheets.

Doctor Dalles watched him struggle with pursed lips. "Don't be so stubborn. You won't be getting out of here until I say so. Your body needs time to recover from what you put it through. I don't know what you were thinking, going out in the cold like that. You're lucky you didn't catch pneumonia." Dean made a noise out of frustration which she seemed to take as distress, and her expression softened slightly. "It's just a while longer. He's not going anywhere." Dean continued to sulk, unwilling to look at her. The baroness let out a resigned sigh. "I'll go see about getting someone to bring you something to eat," she said, and left him alone to brood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Not sure I captured the right emotions here, so if you have any thoughts on that, please leave a review. Thanks for reading!


End file.
